Don't Pay your Heating Bills
by TheFellowshipOfOreos
Summary: The flat's heating bills accidentally went unpaid again, John is cold and shivering in his bed, and Sherlock's bed is suspiciously warm. Johnlock, one shot!


While John read his evening paper and Sherlock meddled with his microscope late one night, a small knock on the door of 221B momentarily disturbed their comfortable silence.

Without waiting for an all clear, Mrs. Hudson entered the flat with a bundle of envelopes in her hands. She smiled at the good doctor and went over to press a chaste kiss on top of his grey blond hair, and then turned towards Sherlock.

The detective hadn't bothered to raise his head as the landlady entered the flat; he could tell it was her by the way she knocked at their door earlier. He mumbled his greeting and turned his focus back on his broken microscope.

"Young man," Mrs. Hudson started to say, her voice taking on a motherly tone, "You've been neglecting to pay your flat's heating bills again."

John looked up from his paper.

"Sherlock," she said, sounding exasperated. "It's the fifth time this year alone, you can't keep on forgetting to pay the heating bills, especially in this weather. You and John will freeze to death in here; you know how cold the rooms get during the winter."

Sherlock looked up for the first time, glancing at John and then at Mrs. Hudson. "Oh, yes. I suppose I must have misplaced those."

"They were right in your mailbox."

He waved his hands, as if dismissing the thought. "I was busy with a case. It was a 9, would you believe it? And –"

"No more excuses, you aren't a child anymore. And I'm your landlady, not your mother. I can't keep reminding you to pay your bills."

John looked as frustrated as Mrs. Hudson did at this point. It was the fifth time this year the detective casually 'forgot' to pay the heating bills, but that had been during autumn, when the coldness of the winter hadn't settled yet. Now the temperature had changed and a cold spell had taken over London for the past few weeks. They couldn't possibly survive without heating.

"What about the fireplace?" Sherlock asked, calmly cleaning his microscope slide. "We could start a fire and the flat would undoubtedly heat up in no time."

"You can't possibly expect _me_ to sleep on the _couch_," John protested, putting his newspaper down and looking at his flat mate sternly. "My shoulder would start acting up again."

"I'm not asking you to sleep on the couch, John," Sherlock reassured, a small smile creeping at the corner of his lips. "You could sleep on the floor."

"You think you're funny, eh? How about _you_ sleep on the floor, since you're the one who suggested the idea in the first place _and_ forgot to pay the bills?"

Mrs. Hudson shifted uncomfortably as she watched her two tenants argue back and forth. She placed the bills on the table and excused herself, throwing an apologetic glance at John and a fierce look towards Sherlock.

"And I was actually looking forward to a nice warm bath and a good night's sleep," mumbled John, picking up his empty cup of tea and walking towards the kitchen. "I guess I won't be having either."

"Oh, quit being so melodramatic, John. Just sleep with a few extra covers tonight and you'll be fine. I promise I won't forget to pay the bills tomorrow."

John hummed in response. "That's what you said last time, and I woke up the next day with a runny nose and a sore throat that wouldn't go away for days."

"You know, John, a persistent sore throat is actually a sign of cancer and I really urge you to get it checked out –"

"Shut up."

Sherlock smirked and went back to his microscope.

"Did you eat dinner?" the doctor asked, standing right outside the door. He wanted to make sure the petulant detective had actually nourished his body before going to sleep.

"I ate the rest of the Thai leftovers we had in the fridge."

"Alright, then. I'm going to sleep. Or at least I'll try to. Goodnight."

Sherlock mumbled something that sounded like a 'goodnight', but John wasn't too sure. He hurried up to his room and stripped out of his jumper and trousers, and pulled on his pajamas. He chose the woolen ones with the long sleeves, hoping the extra fabric will help keep him warm.

John rummaged through the closet and pulled out three extra blankets out of a pile of new ones, leaving the rest for Sherlock to use. He threw them on his bed and arranged them the best he could, forming a little warm cocoon that would trap heat in and wouldn't let a bit of cold enter.

He tried to go to sleep.

He tried for almost two hours, and he twisted and turned every minute to try and get comfortable, but he couldn't.

His room was _bloody cold._

The window was closed and he made sure his door was shut as well, but it seemed as if every cold draft in the flat had been trapped inside his bedroom. He shivered under his blankets and tried to stay still, hoping his body heat would accumulate under the covers, but all attempts were futile.

His room was really **_really_** fucking cold.

He imagined Sherlock was already in his bed, all nice and tucked in and probably already asleep, the damn bastard. Sherlock's room was always a little warm and he had piles and piles of blankets he liked to keep in the back of his closet for emergencies.

What kind of emergencies John didn't have a clue, but he didn't even care at this point. He was probably going to slowly freeze to death and then die of hypothermia and Sherlock would find his cold body in the morning and –

_Get a grip, Watson,_ John mentally slapped himself.

But John couldn't think of anything else but Sherlock's warm bedroom and soft sheets, and the detective had probably stripped down to nothing but those damn flimsy pants of his and he was most likely sweaty and warm under those heavy blankets...

**No.**

The last thing John needed was an uncomfortable problem in his pants that required to be taken care of while it was colder than the bloody Arctic Circle outside. He was cold and he couldn't sleep, plus he had an early shift at work the next day, meaning he'd have to wake up early.

He had only one solution, and that was to go to Sherlock's room and sneak inside his bed for a bit.

Just for a bit.

Sherlock probably wouldn't even notice him...he needed just enough time for his body to warm up a little and then he'd go back to his room and sleep.

According to John's sleep deprived brain that was one of the best idea he'd had in a long time, so John reluctantly threw off the multitude of blankets and slowly made his way towards Sherlock's room. The light under the door was out, which meant he was almost certainly asleep. He slowly twisted the door handle open and peeked inside, seeing Sherlock's sleeping form on the bed.

He was right; Sherlock's room was warm. _Too_ warm, enough to raise some suspicion, but the doctor was too tired to question anything.

The detective wasn't even under the sheets; his legs took up most of the space and his head hung from the side of the bed, his hair was rumpled and he made soft noises as he breathed repeatedly. The case had knocked him out, meaning he would be in a sleep coma for about fourteen hours, if not more.

And he was a deep sleeper. Not even a bomb going off inside his own living room would awaken him, so John shouldn't have any problems with sneaking into his bed.

Just to sleep, though, nothing else.

_Not gay,_ he reassured himself.

He slowly crept to the side of Sherlock's bed and drew up the covers, sneaking into it and pulling the sheets over his shoulders. He was instantly surrounded by warmth and the smell of Sherlock's shampoo, which was more than enough to lull him to sleep.

But God, John wanted nothing more than to reach over and run his hands down Sherlock's back and wrap his legs and arms around his warm body until he fell asleep.

He wanted to snog the life out of Sherlock, and to kiss those damn soft lips and Cupid's bow that he loved so much. He wanted to shut him up and have him silent and stunned for a while, and he wanted to watch Sherlock's pupils dilate to the point where his eyes were completely black, and to have his lips swell and become pink with the exertion of kissing.

He wanted Sherlock to shag him senseless.

_Not gay my arse, _John thought as his eyes closed against his will.

He almost laughed at how pathetic he sounded, but instead rolled over onto his side and pulled the covers tighter around him. Just a few more minutes and he'd be warm enough to go back to his own bed and sleep.

John moved again to try to find a comfortable spot. He turned his face and opened his eyelids a little, and almost jumped out of his skin as he made eye contact with a pair of stormy grey eyes.

"Jesus, Sherlock!" he hissed, clutching his chest and feeling his heart beat out of pace. "You almost gave me a heart attack! What the hell are you doing?"

"I should be asking you the same," the detective said, his deep baritone voice sounding gravely and thick with sleep.

"I'm trying to warm up. It's too cold in my room."

"And it isn't cold in mine?"

"It's a lot warmer in _your_ room, I'll tell you that."

They lay next to each other in silence, Sherlock's eyes observing the other man in his bed. John's ears and cheeks turned a lovely shade of pink as he was scrutinized by the detective's eyes, and he almost gathered up his stuff and made a run for it.

"You can stay here if you want," Sherlock said, breaking the silence.

John opened his mouth to protest, but nothing came out. He was a bit shocked; he never expected Sherlock to offer him a place in his own bed. He wanted to apologize and run to his room, but he was bolted to his space on the bed. He felt himself nod.

"Okay."

"I'm sorry you were cold," Sherlock slurred, the apology sounding strange in his voice. "You can stay in my bed if it's warm enough for you."

John nodded again, too dumbfounded and stunned to speak.

"Were you watching me?" he finally asked, finding his voice.

Sherlock's eyebrows rose at the question.

"For a while, yes. I didn't know whether I was hallucinating from the lack of sleep or the chemicals I've accidentally inhaled today at the lab. I'm glad it was neither of those."

"So...are you okay with me being in here?"

Sherlock nodded.

"...In your bed?"

"It doesn't bother me. Unless you'd rather go back to your room –"

"No," John interrupted, smiling shyly. "No, I'll stay. Thank you."

Sherlock rolled to face John and they lay like that for a long time, neither of them wanting to go back to sleep.

"Why are you watching me? I can't sleep if you keep watching me like that," John said, his cheeks flushing without his consent.

"You're shivering," Sherlock replied without blinking an eye. "You're still cold."

"My body doesn't adjust to fluctuating temperatures very quickly and it might take some – hey, what are you doing?"

John was interrupted as Sherlock wrapped his arms around his neck. The detective drew him closer, inching their bodies together and enfolding two long arms around his neck and upper back. Sherlock practically radiated warmth and heat and John instantly relaxed as he was embraced in the other man's arms. He was warm and smelled good, and John's face was settled into the crook of Sherlock's neck, and the doctor could smell tea and chemicals and herbal shampoo; it made him go crazy with want.

"You looked a bit cold," Sherlock explained.

John only hummed in response and tucked his head on Sherlock's chest, where he focused on the comforting beating of the detective's heart. Sherlock pulled the covers tighter around them, and nestled his nose along the curve of John's neck.

Then, he bent his head to John's ears and whispered words that sent little sparks of electricity down the doctor's body.

"I know, John," he said.

John tried to play dumb. "What?"

"You can drop the _Not Gay _façade now; it's not working anymore and it's absolutely pathetic."

"Sherlock, I –"

"I know about your feelings towards me," Sherlock whispered, his deep voice thick with sleep. John felt himself start to squirm as Sherlock's warm breath hit the side of his face, and he tried with all his might not to let those words affect him.

"I didn't want to make you uncomfortable," John managed to say. "You told me you were married to your work."

"You are part of my work," Sherlock said, pressing soft kisses to John's neck and tightening his grip on the other man's body.

John just about lost it and let a small sigh escape his lips.

"Do you like me?" he asked, suddenly feeling as if he was in elementary school again.

"Of course I like you, John," Sherlock said, sounding a bit offended. "I'd be lost without my blogger, you know that."

"Is that an attempt at being romantic? Because if so –"

"Shut up and take what you can get," Sherlock mumbled, feeling exposed and suddenly a bit shy. He wanted nothing more than to kiss John and wrap his arms tighter around him and never let him go, but he wasn't about to do anything without John wanting it.

There was no one in the entire universe that Sherlock appreciated more than John.

He liked how John knew precisely how to make his morning tea. He liked how John knew his favorite foods and books, and how the good doctor always seemed to finish his sentences. He appreciated John's attempts at making him tea, and he loved the way his flat mate looked like after he woke up, because his normally neat hair would be all disheveled.

He knew how John liked his tea, he knew that John took his showers at exactly 6:00 PM every evening and finished at 6:05 on the dot, due to his military habits. He knew the way the doctor looked at him sometimes, when he thought he wasn't paying attention. He noticed how John would always slightly lean towards him, and how their fingers lingered when they handed objects to each other. He noticed when John bought him his favorite green tea and John noticed when Sherlock cleaned the flat before he arrived home every evening, no matter how little the detective's efforts at cleaning were.

They both **_knew_**, but hadn't said anything about it, fearing rejection and the loss of their friendship. It was eating them alive, but they had both separately decided that it best to deal with it than to risk ruining their relationship.

John finally spoke up. "I'd like to _not_ be _'Not Gay'_ with you," he said, his words sounding rushed. "I mean, if you'd like to."

The small smirk that appeared on Sherlock's face wasn't expected.

"May I kiss you?" he asked.

John didn't give him a verbal answer but instead grabbed the collar of Sherlock's shirt and brought their lips together. Their first kiss was slow and soft, and they both cataloged how the other tasted, and John decided that he would never be able to get tired of the way Sherlock Holmes kissed; slow, but methodical.

Sherlock tasted of sweetened tea, and he took control of the kiss, much to John's surprise. He softly pulled on John's upper lip and John opened his mouth a bit further, letting Sherlock deepen the kiss.

Sherlock drew his lips away from John's momentarily to pepper John's neck with small kisses again, his tongue lavishing the soft and sensitive skin with gentle bites and soft kisses.

And then they drew each other's body close, sharing the warmth of the bed and their body heat, and it was perfect.

Maybe Sherlock should forget to pay the heating bills a bit more often.


End file.
